Belonging and Othering

At this time of year, specifically Christmas and December, I begin to feel a real sense of ‘other’. Because I’m so active on social media now, I’ve begun to feel it even more intensely this year. So I’m doing some soul searching to find out why. And as I search, I’m seeing so many examples of those who don’t celebrate Christmas embrace the holiday’s colorful traditions. For example, a Sikh family dressed up in red and green Christmas PJs or the Kuwaiti/Muslim family with their Christmas tree. Am I the only one who feels like an outsider? Should I feel like an outsider? Why can’t I just join in the fun as many people do? So far, I don’t have a complete answer, but let me share how my feeling like ‘other’ began.

In the course of a lifetime, it is normal to feel different from others when we’re part of a group. I grew up in a Reform Jewish household where religion was more a guide than a dogma. We celebrated the major holidays, went to temple on the High Holidays of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, I learned at Hebrew school, was a bat mitzvah (age 13), and attended Confirmation (age 16). Growing up, there were very few Jewish students in my school. Our holidays were rarely mentioned in school assemblies like the Christmas concert which never included any Chanukah songs (there aren’t many, but they do exist). Sometimes there were gift exchanges and dress-up days, but no matter what the activity, it was always centered around Christmas. I sometimes felt like I knew more about other religions’ holidays than my own because I was surrounded by them and never heard people talk about mine unless I was at home. I think you can understand why it made me feel like I didn’t belong.

When I moved to Kuwait, I converted to Islam. It was my choice and I truly believe I made the right one for me. I live in a majority Muslim country, but that still doesn’t prevent me from being surrounded online with messages of Christmas. The point is that messages on social media and advertising continue to make me feel like the other even while I love celebrating their holiday.

Am I alone in feeling this way? Should I be/should I have been more outspoken about how I feel to let people know? Would it have made a difference? Maybe they wouldn’t have understood how I felt. Is this a good place to use my “I” messages? For instance, “When you only show Christmas cards, sing Christmas carols, create activities around Christmas for 25 days, I feel left out.” Or should I go with the flow and just include myself as one of the crowd and enjoy the activities, even create some of my own? I’m asking this genuinely because I’m confused. Brene Brown says fitting in isn’t true belonging because we give up our authentic selves if we assimilate but don’t feel it in our hearts.

It’s my December dilemma, but not only mine. I recently read an article by a mother who felt her son was assimilating to the point he didn’t feel identity to his religion anymore. I’ve had discussions with my daughter about how she will raise her children. She told me there isn’t a problem celebrating a variety of holidays at home, as some of her friends are doing. (Click here to find articles and resources about this topic) I still wonder if this is confusing or encourages respect and diversity.

As we begin to look at belonging and othering, we need to consider inclusivity. By focusing on only one religious holiday, are we considering how those who practice other religions feel? During the year, are we recognizing and learning about other holidays? It’s not enough to wish them a Happy “so and so” Day if we spend a month celebrating one religion’s holiday. Where is the equity? Where is the appreciation for diversity?

It’s hard to feel a sense of belonging if your holiday isn’t recognized the same as everyone else’s. How can we raise children in the Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist faiths when they don’t see their holidays celebrated or recognized? If they celebrate Christmas, will that confuse them?

So, as I continue to reflect on my feelings, I’d like to ask: Are we celebrating the majority at the expense of the few?

Note: (Othering and Belonging Insititute) define(s) “othering” as a set of dynamics, processes, and structures that engender marginality and persistent inequality across any of the full range of human differences based on group identities. Dimensions of othering include, but are not limited to, religion, sex, race, ethnicity, socioeconomic status (class), disability, sexual orientation, and skin tone. (https://www.otheringandbelonging.org/the-problem-of-othering )

But over time people break apart, no matter how enormous the love they feel for one another is, and it is through the breaking and the reconciliation, the love and the doubting of love, the judgment and the coming together again, that we find our own identity and define our relationships.

According to the Cambridge online dictionary, the meaning of reconciliation is “a situation in which two people or groups of people become friendly again after they have argued OR the process of making two opposite beliefs, ideas or situations agree”. Like wearing a mask or not wearing a mask; Black Lives Matter or All Lives Matter; Republican or Democrat; Vaxers or Anti-Vaxers; Refugees Welcome or No Refugees Allowed, and the list goes on. This might seem like it will be a negative or depressing post, but it isn’t. I’m here to tell you a personal story of my reconciliation with my family, my parents to be exact, and how opening the door, even just a tiny bit, can bring opposing sides to a point of compromise and understanding. My story begins in 1982 at a dinner with my parents, fiance, and me.

While I was growing up, I lacked the ability to voice any disagreement with decisions made by my parents. I was a rule follower and respected my parents, actually idolized my parents, for being the all-knowing and compassionate examples I needed to emulate. When I moved to Miami, Florida in 1978 for grad school, I had no idea that would all change. I happened to meet a young, Kuwaiti grad student right before I left. I assumed once I moved, our friendship would be distant and we’d soon move onto other relationships. However, we remained in contact throughout the year I spent completing my MBA and continued after I moved to Atlanta, Georgia to work. I began to sense a gap building between my parents and me as I moved away from their vision of an obedient child and began venturing out to discos (it was the 70s) and letting my boyfriend stay with me when he visited. I lived with a sense of guilt that I was somehow betraying their trust, but I also wanted to “be my own person”. After two years of a long-distance relationship that blossomed into a more serious one, I decided it was time to move back to Buffalo. I packed and headed north. I decided to rent an apartment near my boyfriend (who soon became my fiance) since it was convenient to get to my work, and after all, I was independent of my parents by then. That was 1980.

My parents knew about my relationship with my fiance, but I never really asked how they felt about me dating a Muslim when I had grown up in the Jewish tradition. I just assumed since they’d raised my siblings and me to be open-minded and accepting, this would be acceptable to them. Now that I was back in my hometown, I invited my parents to dinner, so they could get to know him better. There was friction between my parents and me that had started while I was away. I believed they were picturing me as the “old” Ilene; obedient, rule follower, etc. But now I was partying, staying out late, and not contacting them as often as I used to. One evening, I invited them to an early dinner at my apartment. My fiance joined us to socialize before we ate and stayed for a while afterward. Then he excused himself to return to his apartment for a nap. As soon as he was out the door, my parents began criticizing him for disrespecting them because he left before they did. I tried to explain that it was his culture and habit, but they weren’t persuaded. After a few minutes of shouting, they left and demanded I return my house key (they’d given me a spare in case I came by and they weren’t home yet). That was the last time I spoke to them for almost eight years. I moved to Kuwait in 1984, married, and had two sons. My parents had no idea where I was or what was happening in my life during that time. None of us tried to reach out during that time.

Then, in a phone call with my brother in 1988, who I’d kept in touch with throughout my estrangement with my parents, he asked me if I’d consider contacting them. I had recently been thinking about it since I felt so hypocritical talking to my sons about how important family is, but they didn’t have a clue about my side of the family, except my brother. I told him I needed to think about it. I remember sitting on the side of my bed that night and thinking, “If I never see or talk to my parents again, will I be alright with that?” The answer was a resounding, “No”. I never want to live regretting any part of my life, and I realized that my children needed to grow up knowing my side of the family.

My brother helped me set up a phone call with my mother and father a few weeks later. The tone was reserved, but I’d decided to keep an open mind and heart. I knew it was going to be difficult and I had no idea how long it would take, but I was determined to make it work. We arranged a visit to their home the following summer (1989) and corresponded by snail mail and phone calls in the meantime. The visit was good. My parents were so happy to meet their grandsons and that served as the initial bridge between us. My husband was so supportive and determined to make sure the broken fences were mended. It definitely didn’t happen overnight. There was shouting, especially between my mother and me, and lots of remembering about past words we said to each other in anger. She stung me many times, but throughout, I was determined to speak my mind, so we could continue building our way back to a relationship. My father let us work it out. He seemed to understand we were past the time of being apart. My mother needed to work out all the details, including the hurt and the depression she suffered during those eight years. Once we were on better terms, she and I made several road trips to take my sons to summer camp. While they were in the car, we reminisced about good times, and she chatted with her grandsons. After all, she only had two months with them each year, since we always returned to Kuwait in August. Once we were on our way home, inevitably we would hit upon a subject that reminded her of our split and the anger would creep in again.

Let me say that the process of reconciliation was raw and difficult, but it was worth every moment because the result was we laid our feelings, good and bad, out in the open. With time, we came to learn that each of our perceptions created our misunderstandings. My perceptions were deep-rooted and included my lack of understanding of how much my parents cared about me that I interpreted as trying to control how I lived my life. On my parent’s part, they believed I was rejecting the life I’d grown up with and, in turn, rejecting their values.

The time we spent reconciling was worth all the initial pain and suffering. Our relationship is better than ever because now we can talk about anything and everything without getting angry. I Skype with my mom almost every day. We often say how blessed we are that we lived long enough to have this wonderful and joyous time together. My children have deep and abiding respect and love for their grandmother and miss their grandfather dearly since he passed away in 2009.

I’m sharing this very personal story today because we all need to take a close look at who we believe is on the opposite side of whatever issue we hold a tight grip on and consider “loving anyway”, just reaching out and starting a conversation with them. It’s amazing what you find out when you open that door, even aa tiny bit.

I started writing this post last week but world events interfered with my concentration and I finally have a few clear headed moments to complete it and post it. Suffice it to say, concerns about the corona virus led to a family decision to postpone my son’s wedding in Kuwait. He and his fiance are studying in the U.S. and my other children were supposed to fly in from the U.S. and Thailand. You can fill in the rest.

And now for my post:

The 59th Kuwait National Day and 29th Liberation Day celebrations

Kuwait celebrated its 59th year of independence and 29 years since its liberation from the Iraqi invasion on February 25 and 26. I have many memories of celebrating with my husband and children including touring the city to see all the buildings lit up in red, green, and white (the colors of the Kuwaiti flag). We also went to local museums and watched videos about Kuwait’s history. I wanted my children to have a sense of their Kuwaiti identity and how to be a responsible citizen who is mindful of how we can be ambassadors of our culture and heritage which goes back to the late 1600s.

Photo of Kuwait’s flag. Photo by jsddesign

Citizens and residents of Kuwait are reminded of the important role we all play in the future of this small but important country. Kuwait’s rulers are known for their diplomatic finesse as well as for their generosity. The Emir of Kuwait was recognized for his support of many philanthropic initiatives by the United Nations in 2014. He was named the Humanitarian Leader by the former Secretary-General Ban Ki-Moon.

Kuwait Fund for Economic Development-photo by www.gramho.com

In addition, the Kuwait Fund for Arab Economic Development, established in Kuwait in 1961 has provided funding and expertise for infrastructure projects, hospitals, schools, and others around the Middle East and Africa. Over the past 59 years, the Kuwait Fund has provided low cost loans for housing projects, hospitals, wastewater facilities, road construction, and many other infrastructure projects in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA). There are hospitals, streets, and schools named after Kuwait and Kuwaitis in many MENA countries.

Lately, volunteerism has increased with regular visits for local beach clean ups and support of NGOs involved in Syrian refugee warmth and education campaigns. A growing number of citizens and residents are involved in sustainable future initiatives such as organic farming, creating and selling natural products that reduce the use of plastic, and reducing food waste. Kuwait supports the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) and has partnered with the local UNDP office to ensure they meet targets. Youth are spearheading many of these entrepreneurial endeavors. There is a general trend to instill a sense of responsibility to keep the country clean and participate in the Kuwait 2035 vision by supporting volunteer initiatives.

Of course, I celebrate America’s independence every year and hope it continues to be an example of freedom of speech, inclusivity and respect for all. Living in both democracies has given me an appreciation and respect for other opinions and an awareness that we must all learn to listen to each other and find a way to work for a better future for ourselves and our children, for the “common good”, globally. We will not survive if we don’t work together.

I proudly sing the national anthems of the United States and Kuwait. It is hard to explain how I feel such an attachment to both cultures, but I am grateful for my strong feelings of belonging.

Check out my new podcast and be sure to subscribe “Journeys to Belonging” on your favorite podcast platform. https://anchor.fm/ilenew

Class bulletin board during my first year of teaching in Kuwait

In 1996, I was working in an administrative office of Kuwait University. It was my first job in Kuwait since the first eleven years had been filled with raising my three children. I wasn’t all that excited about the work since it was mostly pushing papers, but I loved the team I was working with and had the chance to read and speak Arabic in a professional setting. About half way through the first year, I received a call from a close friend who worked at my sons’ school. We chatted for a bit about our kids and work. Then she mentioned that one of the reading support teachers she worked with in the elementary school was leaving her job to become the superintendent at a new, all girls school with an American curriculum. I never asked her why she told me about it, but I think she may have intended for me to consider moving my daughter from public school to the private system. But I took the opportunity to find out if I could get a teaching job.

After I spoke to the superintendent about my interest in becoming a teacher at the new school, she told me I couldn’t apply for grades 1 or 2 which were important years for basic skills since I didn’t have a degree in education or any experience teaching other than providing support for my children when they needed help. She told me the school wanted to hire native English speakers and that I would be suitable to teach grade 3. I was delighted about having the opportunity to start a new career. Initially, I confess I was attracted by the summer vacation schedule which meant I could visit my family in the U.S. I was also happy to have a job that challenged me to learn something new since I knew I didn’t have the education or experience to teach with my BA in history and my M.B.A.

The year was 1996 and the school opened with 85 students and less than 20 teachers and staff. There was only one class per grade level (we were Pre-K to grade 5 the first year), except for the kindergarten which had two classes. Every day I came home from work and my husband would ask me, “Are you going to have a job next year? Will the school stay open?”. I calmly told him that parents were satisfied and I was sure there would be a higher enrollment the following year. There were eight students in my grade 3 class that first year, and one of them spoke no English at all. This was problematic at the grade 3 level with an American curriculum and books in English. I did my best to accommodate her language deficiency by allowing her to draw her answers and only allowed her peers to explain to her in Arabic if she had no idea about what we were saying. At that point, I was pretty fluent in Arabic, but didn’t let the students know until they were already into a routine of using English in the classroom. The first time they realized I understood them, they were so surprised!

This was my first year as a teacher and I knew that my professional development in second language acquisition and pedagogy was essential if my students were going to succeed. I searched online for research and advice about teaching second language learners and classroom management. I found the ASCD organization and joined. I realized early on there were vast differences in language and learning abilities of my students. This troubled me; not their differences, but that I needed to differentiate my lessons to accommodate my students. This led me to Carol Ann Tomlinson’s differentiated instruction (more on that in my next post).

While I was learning, I realized I needed to modify my lesson plans to ensure my students were seeing the connections between their learning and how to apply it. This prompted me to explore different activities that would fill in gaps they had in basic skills and knowledge. For example, there was a unit in their social studies book about the Revolutionary War in America. I knew this was going to be difficult for them to relate to, so I divided up the chapter according to how challenging the passages were, put the students into groups of the same reading level, and assigned passages accordingly to their level (jigsaw method). Then I told them they must teach the other students their part of the chapter by acting it out and then quizzing the students to see if they understood it. The results were amazing! I gave them time to work on it in class, and then each group presented to the others and quizzed them. I was there to guide them and make sure they covered the main points, but they came up with the main points.

I also modeled good reading skills for the students by reading aloud and doing “think alouds”. This method is terrific for second language learners (and all students for that matter). First I read through the whole paragraph. Then I would go back through it and as I read, I would tell them what I was thinking. For example, if I came upon a difficult word, I would stop and talk about what it meant, using typical reading strategies: within the context of the other sentences, or looking at prefix/suffix, or root word they already knew. After I did this a few times, I asked students to volunteer and try it. I also told them if they were stumped, to look the word up in the dictionary as a last resort.

The first year was quite daunting for me since my students had so many different levels of English skills as well as lacking study skills. It was also a challenge since I was new to teaching, but I regularly met with the elementary principal and my co-workers to ask for advice and learn from their experience. I also had a wonderful teaching assistant who did her best to remind me to smile and not take everything so seriously. She was a great support to me and the students even though it was sometimes difficult for me to figure out how she could help me. I was still trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing, so often I had no idea how she could help me.

In Part 2 of this series, I will tell you more about my first year and how I began to grow my expertise.

Photo of Kuwait water towers landmark
Photo credit to Richard Bartz

When I moved from Buffalo, NY to Yarmouk, Kuwait in 1984, I knew I was moving to an arid desert, but had no idea how hot it would be during the summer. In fact, I had no idea what the minimum and maximum temperatures were, or if there were four seasons. It didn’t take long for me to figure out what the weather was like, and what it means to live in the desert. I arrived in late October and my first and most lasting impression was exiting the airport late at night and being confronted with a feeling of putting my head in the oven. The air was still hot (about 90 degrees F) and it was so dry! That was a huge contrast to the weather in Buffalo which was about 40 degrees F and humid when I left.

It was about a month before the temperature cooled to 80 degrees F and the nights were in the high 50s. Sometime in late December, after one week of cooler weather, a cold, northwesterly wind, called a ‘shamal’ blew in. I remember my husband telling me that Kuwait in the winter was colder than Buffalo, but I’d argued with him that Buffalo was colder. He proceeded to assure me that the desert cold is different than the northern winters in the U.S. He said, “The chill gets into your bones and no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold.” I soon found out what he meant. Although the north wind didn’t stay for more than a few days at a time, it was bitter and chilled me to the bone! According to local folklore, this weather pattern originates in Siberia; however, I was unable to find any source to verify that fact.

With time, I learned the change of seasons is subtle and what I knew as summer, lasted for about nine months. I discovered that Fall and Spring existed but not by the change in temperature as much as changes in the vegetation and precipitation. If we have a good rainy season beginning in November, the desert is filled with wild flowers and greenery in the Spring. If it is a dry winter, the desert areas are brown and boring. Although it has never snowed in Kuwait, it does hail occasionally. When hail falls and the ground is cold enough for it to stick, social media posts will claim it was snow, but the meteorologists always debunk it.

Lack of water, due to the desert climate meant that very little flora could grow. The Arabian Gulf is salt water, so until the early 1960s when the first desalination plant was opened, there were no native sources of fresh water to drink or for irrigation except for three wells scattered around the country. This was not enough to sustain the population, so water was shipped from Iraq and delivered in leather pouches carried by donkeys from house to house. The laborer who brought the water was called a “kandari”. Each house had containers to hold the water until it was used. The containers were made of a special kind of clay and kept the water cool.

Men taking water from one of a few wells in Kuwait.

Water is very important since it’s so hot and fresh water is scarce. The symbol of Kuwait is a water tower and there are water towers scattered around the country. My mother-in-law once scolded me while I was doing the dishes and told me not to leave the water running as I soaped the dishes because it’s so precious. Times have changed and multiple desalination plants have been built to ensure sufficient fresh water for consumption and for irrigation. Many farms and greenhouses have sprung up which means local fruits and vegetables in the grocery stores. We also have bottled water which is now a cause for debate due to the amount of plastic waste it creates. Because of the long summer and high temperatures (in past years the highest recorded was 129 degrees F!), a lot of water is consumed.

One final word about the weather and water. When I lived in Buffalo, we used to sing “rain, rain go away, come again another day”. I was very surprised the first time it rained after I arrived and everyone around me started congratulating each other! What a difference in perspectives.

For more information about average temperatures throughout the year in Kuwait: https://www.climatestotravel.com/climate/kuwait

Photo of a traditionally dressed Bedouin woman sitting in an Arabic style home with Sadu weavings hung on walls around her. Photo c/o Kuwait News Agency (KUNA)

A feeling of community is an important connection I have in Kuwait. When I first moved here, in October 1984, I lived with my mother-in-law in one of the first suburbs in Kuwait, just outside of the downtown business area. Several of the neighboring houses were the Arabic style with a courtyard in the center and had rooms all around the outer edge. These houses were built from a mixture of sand, seashells and water, so during a severe rainstorm, parts of the house had to be rebuilt. The houses were one floor and the roof was used in the summer heat to sleep. The fascinating part of the house was the seating. Arabic style seating was a set of cushions that were placed on the floor at the perimeter of the living room. This arrangement was also used when families got together to eat. The food was served on platters on a large, round aluminum tray and everyone would serve him/herself. It was truly family style!

I mentioned above that Shamiya, where I lived for the first five years in Kuwait, was just outside the city limits. This neighborhood was established by a decision of Kuwait’s government in the late 1950s to reclaim the downtown area for businesses and compensate families who lived inside the security wall (soor) during the early days of Kuwait. Families were moved from their original neighborhoods in Sharq and Qibla to Shamiya, Adeliya, and other nearby neighborhoods. An interesting fact is when Kuwaitis meet each other for the first time, they often discuss where they lived originally since many of them were close neighbors. This relationship continues to give them a sense of belonging and familiarity. Grandparents and parents knew each other and played together on the street outside their homes and didn’t mind being disciplined by someone else’s parent if they were naughty.

An aerial shot of old Kuwait from the Kuwait Digest published in 2001 by the Kuwait oil Company from their archives.

Kuwaitis tend to live in a house for generations and it is rare that a family moves unless they need more room as the children grow up and marry, or if several siblings live in the same house and decide to sell it after their parents die. Houses are built from concrete and steel beams like buildings in Europe and North America. They are built to last. They are also still built very close to each other, as in the past where you could jump from roof to roof.

Kuwait City with a view of the Kuwait Towers along the Gulf Road and showing the Arabian Gulf.
Photo courtesy of Int’l Investment

When I moved to Yarmouk in 1990 (a newer neighborhood about 15 minutes from downtown), I made an effort to meet all of my neighbors, even those who built houses after we did. The result is I have a much closer relationship with them. In fact, there is a tradition during Ramadan (the fasting month) where families send food to each other during the month. We receive many delicious meals this way and send some back! Some evenings are a veritable buffet at our house!

Kuwaiti neighborhoods have expanded as children decide to live in their own home instead of with their parents, as in the past. This expansion has led to new neighborhoods in areas that were desert sand and far from the Kuwait City, Ahmadi, and Jahra (the three “largest” cities/towns in Kuwait). The government has built new roads and extended highways, installed telephone lines and electricity to ensure all infrastructure is available when people move in. The majority of foreign workers live in apartment buildings in the urban areas. They also rent floors in homes.
Since home and neighborhood are so important to feeling you belong in a place, I am happy to have learned about the history of Kuwait’s neighborhoods as well as experiencing the community of neighbors. Neighbors care about neighbors and we watch out for each other.

Young boys playing a traditional game in the past. Photo via kuwaitiah.com

When my husband described the socializing in Kuwait before I arrived and got married, he explained that family gatherings and visits to relatives and friends were the most important activities. This has changed quite a bit in the past 35 years as malls, restaurants, and movie theaters were built and became part of the local social scene. Previously, there were particular traditions of gathering in each neighborhood including the local mosque and diwaniyas which are, according to Wikipedia: “The dewaniya or diwaniya was the reception area where a Middle Eastern man received his business colleagues and male guests. Today the term refers both to a reception hall and the gathering held in it, and visiting or hosting a dewaniya is an important feature of a Gulf Arab man’s social life.” Men meet weekly to discuss business, politics, and other topics while drinking tea and Arabic coffee. There are also card games played and younger men play PlayStation or other online games. These traditions continue alongside other activities such as lunch or dinner in a restaurant, and perhaps catching a movie afterwards. The importance of family and friends in Kuwaiti culture is very important and underlines how important it is to feel you belong.

Women also have their gatherings such as early afternoon tea or evening receptions in honor of a bride or new baby. Discussions of important local issues and supporting each other is common in these gatherings. Some may see this gender separation as old-fashioned, but there is plenty of time spent in mixed groups with both genders, especially at family gatherings. The importance of community creates a sense of belonging and connectedness. It’s a wonderful way to live and be happy.

This week’s post is a celebration of lives lived well and memories of those who came before me. Two significant people in my life who had a lasting impact on my family and me were my mother-in-law and my father.

Photo from 1997 of my mother-in-law, Lateefah Al Ajeel

Last week, January 16th to be exact, was the 14th anniversary of my mother-in-law’s death. It seems like only yesterday I was taking my children to her house for Thursday lunch (our family gathering). My mother-in-law adopted me as soon as I stepped into her house. She became my Kuwaiti mother, and I became her American daughter who worked hard to learn all I could about the culture and language to ensure we would be forever bonded together. She didn’t replace my biological mother but was a mentor to me the same way my mother was when I was growing up. Let me share some stories of how our lives intertwined over the 22 years I was blessed to have her in my life.

I spent many hours with my mother-in-law since my husband, and I lived with her before we moved into our own house in 1990. We watched television shows and movies and chatted while she showed me how to prepare stuffed grape leaves and samosas. She encouraged me to join her when she visited friends and relatives or participated in rituals such as funerals. The men’s and women’s condolences are separate, so we arranged to go together if there was a death in the family or of someone close to her. Appreciation by members of the grieving family for this simple gesture is remembered years later. Weddings are another way the family gathers together. Up until she became more frail, I attended weddings with her and met many wonderful people in the Kuwaiti community through her introductions as we moved around and greeted people. My mother-in-law was orphaned at an early age and had no siblings, but her cousin’s family raised her, and she was always treated like their daughter, so her extended family is quite large.

Besides the family events, my mother-in-law also attended a weekly ladies’ get-together. Every Monday morning, several ladies would arrive at her house for tea, snacks, and chit-chat. Since I didn’t work for the first nine years, I made sure to join them every week. I served the tea and Arabic coffee, which was usually done by a daughter, but since my mother-in-law only had sons, I was designated and happily accepted the role. As I became more fluent in Arabic, I joined the discussions, which were quite lively and interesting. We talked about local news, politics, and the health of those who weren’t able to join us that week. I also learned some of the old Kuwaiti words which aren’t spoken anymore. I wasn’t aware of this until my brother-in-law asked me how I understood his wife. I replied that I understood Arabic. He told me, I know that, “but she uses so many old words that I don’t know.” That was the first time I realized how my Monday morning conversations had taught me so much.

After she passed away in 2006, I continued to attend condolences, weddings, and other gatherings of the family. My family has told me many times how appreciative they were for adopting the role of her daughter.

When I arrived in Kuwait in 1984, many of the matriarchs of my husband’s family were still alive, including his great-aunts and older cousins. I was so lucky to be able to communicate with them once I learned Arabic and to be a part of their family activities when I accompanied my mother-in-law. Today, I am still in contact with my extended family, and they remember me for accompanying her on special occasions and being with her during the holidays. When they see me, they are reminded of her.

My father, Douglas L. Winokur, as a young man.

My father died suddenly on November 14, 2009; I remember the 1:00 a.m. phone call from my brother and all that happened in the weeks afterward. I also remember the impact he had on my husband, three children, and me. He was not the kind of person who easily expressed his feelings, but we all knew how much he cared about us. He was a wonderful example of a kind, generous, humorous, giving, and ethical man. I remember how he engaged us all in discussions about life and current events. He once told me, “If you don’t have time to read the newspaper every day, at least read the Sunday New York Times.”

My dad was trained as a lawyer, but worked for the New York State Department of Labor for over 30 years. During the riots in the late 1960s, he was the Superintendent of the department in Buffalo, NY. I remember how he fought for equal opportunities for POC in employment and training for men, women, and minorities. He was a member of the NAACP and Southern Poverty Law Center beginning in the 1960s. When a mixed-race couple moved into our neighborhood in 1970, he was one of the first people to welcome them. From him, my children and I learned tolerance, patience, empathy, and how to live an ethical life.

After he retired from civil service, my father volunteered as a lawyer for clients who couldn’t afford representation. After a couple of years, he opened a law office in his neighborhood in Hamburg, N.Y., specializing in real estate law, something that had always been an interest of his. He continued to work, even at 88 years old, never able to fully retire because he loved what he did. His valuable advice about finances and how to save for your future has enabled my mother to continue to live on her own and guides my husband, my children, and me as we plan for our own futures.

I am grateful for all the years I had these two special people in my life. Their legacy continues within me and my family.